Play It Again, Gil
by Klee Wyck
Summary: Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine. GSR. Season 5, Pre Committed.


**Title:** Play it again, Gil  
**Author:** Klee Wyck  
**Pairing: **GSR  
**Spoilers: **Season 5, pre-_Committed_.  
**Rating:** M  
**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. Really.  
**Summary:** Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine.

* * *

_Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine._

_Rick Blaine, Casablanca_

* * *

You must remember this / A kiss is still a kiss / A sigh is just a sigh / The fundamental things apply / As time goes by. / And when two lovers woo/ They still say, "I love you" / On that you can rely / No matter what the future brings / As time goes by.

* * *

He wasn't the sort of person who normally frequented these sorts of establishments. He actually couldn't remember the last time he'd set foot in one, at least for recreational purposes.

The common bar.

He was the sort of person who, after his shift was over, drove straight home, maybe ate something, undressed, showered and climbed into bed. Sometimes he read, sometimes he simply fell asleep, grateful for a respite, however brief, from the day's work.

In the morning he rose and did it all again.

Tonight was different. Tonight he didn't want to go home. He didn't want to go home to an empty, sterile house and an empty, sterile bed. He didn't want to hear the sharp hollow echo of his footsteps against the floors and walls. He didn't want to hear the sound of his own breathing. He didn't want to think or ponder, dream or wonder about anything. Or anyone.

So when he passed the place, _Ilsa's_, he thought, _Why not_?

Why not? At least in a busy bar he could pretend he was with other people, even if he wasn't.

It wasn't like he was going to get drunk, or pick a fight, or pick up a girl, although all three of those options seemed both ridiculously forbidden and appealing at the moment. All three were ridiculously un-Grissom-like, and, precisely because of that, ridiculously tempting.

Sometimes he wondered what would happen if he ever did let go. Just … let _go_.

It wasn't even completely disgusting, as far as bars went. It was, he realized as he slid into a booth, actually rather charming, in its way. It had, what was the current expression? _Retro chic._

It was the perfect place to observe how normal people with normal relationships lived their normal lives.

It was the perfect place to be invisible, even if only for a little while.

* * *

He was on his third gin and tonic and feeling no pain when he saw her. He thought he was hallucinating. Surely he must be drunk. He hadn't meant to get drunk, he wasn't the sort of person who got drunk, but drunkenness could be the only explanation for the vision appearing before him.

Sara.

He felt his heart flutter and compress and try to climb up into his throat. She was standing at the bar. She was wearing a dress, a very simple dress in a shade of blue he equated with the Vegas sky just before sunset. She was wearing low heels and a long strand of small beads. She was tall and lithe and elegant and pretty much his every fantasy come to life.

She also wasn't alone.

She was with some _guy_ Grissom realized, his stomach twisting.

Some Guy.

He sipped his drink and unconsciously slid down in his seat a bit, never taking his eyes off her. She wasn't flirting, exactly, but she was friendly, definitely friendlier than she ever acted at work.

Well, of course, he berated himself. She's not at work right now, is she? She's…on a _date_.

With That _Guy_.

They were talking, or trying to, above the music, heads close together, her hair swinging lightly and brushing against the side of his face. He put his hand on her shoulder and laughed at something she said, and she smiled, wide, pleased. They ordered drinks, laughed some more.

Grissom wondered what on earth could be so Goddamn _funny_.

He wanted to leave. He wanted nothing more than to stand up and walk out, right _now_, but she'd see him. He'd have to walk right past her and The Guy and the last thing he wanted was for her to see him here while she was on a date and he…was not.

Grissom took another sip and then another and signaled for the waitress. He hoped he'd have the wits to call a taxi at some point because there was no way he would be driving himself home tonight. Maybe if he just slid quietly under the table and curled up in a ball no one would notice.

Why hadn't he just gone home? Why did he insist on trying new things? He wasn't the sort of person who stepped out of his comfort zone. It only ever landed him in trouble. It only ever brought him heartache.

Like right now, for instance.

As alcohol continued to blaze a trail down his throat into his churning stomach, he idly wondered what a date with Sara would be like. Where would he take her? (The Planetarium.) Would he have the guts to hold her hand? (Definitely.) Kiss her? (Probably.) Would he—

Suddenly she was standing right in front of him.

"Grissom," she said brightly, nervously questioning. "What are you doing here?" She looked around. "Who are you with?"

He could have sworn her voice carried the tiniest hint of jealousy. Or he could have just imagined it.

Or maybe he hadn't.

Panic set in. Lie, he told himself. Lie. Don't let her know you're sitting in a bar. Alone. Drinking. Alone.

"Uh…I was supposed to meet…Brass."

_Shit. I should have said Sofia. Now I look even more pathetic._

She nodded, skeptical. He stared at her, his hand gripping his glass so tightly his fingers hurt.

"You're on a date," he said looking up at her. She seemed to him to be very, very tall. His head was also starting to throb a bit. And spin. And his stomach was doing a faint swirly thing that made him feel not quite all right. He tilted his head to get a better look at The Guy at the bar, who was trying to look uninterested in the older man who had stolen Sara's attention.

"Oh, that's Mark," she said, waving rather dismissively. She paused. "He's a veterinarian."

"Ahhh. He likes animals."

"Well, he doesn't eat them, at least," she smirked.

"Ahhh. A veterinarian _and_ a vegetarian." He rolled the words around his mouth. "That's nice. For you, I mean. Not for me."

They stared at the table, then at each other.

"So, you're on a date," he said again.

"I do get asked out, from time to time," she said pointedly. "Once in awhile I do the asking. And _sometimes_ I don't get shot down."

Grissom almost flinched. That one hurt.

"Who did the asking tonight?" he said, wondering why he was still talking about Sara's love life. He didn't want to know. Sort of.

"He did," Sara flushed. "But, it's not going well."

"Why not?" he asked.

She bit her lovely lower lip, looked away. "My heart's not really in it, I guess."

He watched her.

"Where is your heart, exactly?" he heard himself ask. _Did I really just say that?_

She looked at him. _Did he really just say that?_

She smiled.

"I think you should drink more often," she said slowly.

"Don't know about that," he said.

"Well." She shook her head. "I should…"

He nodded. "Your date."

"Yeah." Still, she didn't move. Grissom could see The Guy at the bar looking over at them, trying to not look like he was looking over at them. "Well. We're supposed to catch a movie, so…"

"Yeah." He nodded, took another drink. "I should be going, anyway."

"What about Brass?"

"Looks like he stood me up."

She took a deep breath, looked at him again.

"See you later, Gris," she said. She started to walk away.

"Sara?" he said. She turned.

"Have fun."

She nodded. "Yeah. You, too."

I will finish this drink, he told himself. I will finish this drink and I will walk out of this bar, call a cab, go home, fall into bed and pretend this entire evening never happened. That is what I will do.

But casually.

Play it cool, Gil.

Ten more minutes.

Ten more minutes.

Ten more minutes.

* * *

He lasted 47 seconds. Forty-seven more agonizing, gut-wrenching seconds of watching The Guy flirt and caress and laugh out loud and glance over possessively as if to say, Hands Off. My Territory. Mine, All Mine.

Maybe she'd marry The Guy. Maybe she'd marry The Vegetarian Veterinarian and move to Ohio with him and have three children and play Bunco every week and think of Grissom only occasionally and remember to send him family photos at Christmas.

_Ahh, Sara_, he thought. _We'll always have Vegas._

Fighting back a wave of nausea, Grissom drained his drink, wiped his mouth, took a breath. Here goes nothing.

He stood up suddenly. Too suddenly.

Uh oh, he thought. Everything was…moving. Everything around him was moving and yet he was not. How was that possible? He gripped the edge of the table tightly, and tried to remember how many drinks he'd had (Four? Five?) and whether or not he'd eaten anything at work today (No).

He bowed his head and uttered a small prayer to whomever may be listening to a middle-aged, drunk, crazy in love man that he would not a) throw up in front of Sara; b) pass out in front of Sara; c) profess his undying love to Sara and ask her to marry him and stay in Vegas and not have three children with The Guy and not play oddly-named card games, at least not without him.

He took a step. And another. Then apparently he was stumbling, because suddenly Sara was there, beside him, one hand on his elbow, the other around his waist.

"You all right?" she asked, smiling through her concern.

"Fine," he said.

"Uh huh," she said. Through his inebriated haze Grissom could see The Guy staring him down. The Guy now just looked plainly annoyed and more than a bit pissed off. Grissom thought about picking a fight because he was already drunk and he seemed to be picking up a girl, sort of. Grissom sized up The Guy. Could he take him?

Sadly, probably not.

"Sara, I'm fine, really. I'm just going to clear my head and call a cab."

They both looked over at The Guy. He was now glaring at Sara and pointing at his watch in agitation. Grissom sighed. He just wished everything would stop _moving_.

He leaned down and put his mouth in her hair, close to her ear. He felt her arm tighten around his waist.

"Why did you have to come here tonight, Sara? There are other places."

"I wouldn't have, Grissom, if I'd known. Believe me."

He wasn't the sort of person to argue with fate, so he didn't. He just sighed, and then he turned and walked away.

* * *

She found him outside, leaning up against a wonderfully solid brick wall, trying to remember how to unlock his cell phone's keypad. She leaned against the wall next to him, close enough that he could feel her warmth through his shirtsleeve.

"Hi," she said.

"Hi back," he said.

"Where's the cab?" she said.

"Where's The Guy?" he said.

"Ditched him," she said.

"Why on earth did you do that? He was going to introduce you to the joys of child-rearing and community card games like Bunco."

"What are you talking about?" She laughed. "And what the hell is Bunco?"

He shook his head. "I'm not entirely sure."

They listened to traffic.

"How," she said, smiling, "were you planning on getting home tonight, anyway?"

"I guess I was hoping you'd show up."

"You're kind of funny when you're drunk."

"I'm not drunk."

"You're pretty drunk."

He looked at her.

"You're just pretty."

That made her laugh out loud.

"Grissom," she said shaking her head. She bit her lip again.

"What?" He suddenly wanted to kiss her, very badly.

"Come on," she said, sliding her warm hand into his and murmuring words that soundly strangely, oddly familiar. "I'll take you home."

* * *

He let his head fall back against the seat. He closed his eyes, but realized immediately that was a rather big mistake.

Spinning. Much spinning. He opened his eyes and he must have groaned because she looked over at him. He could feel her looking at him, very hard, even in the almost darkness.

"You okay?" Sara asked quietly as she drove.

He didn't know quite how to answer that.

"Should I pull over?" she asked.

He didn't know how to answer that one either, without completely embarrassing himself.

"Uh…Grissom?"

Either he looked dangerously close to vomiting, or he said something to that effect, because she suddenly swerved and came to a stop at the curb and he fumbled for the door handle, smooth and cool under his hand, and the door was mercifully opening and he found himself on his hands and knees on cool, suburban grass, puking his guts up in front of the woman he secretly loved and adored.

So much for prayer.

"Oh, Gris," she knelt beside him, rubbed him gently. He tried to focus on her hand and way it made soft, smooth circles over his heaving back instead of how he was ever going to live this down. Ever.

Finally, finally, it appeared to be over.

"You done?" she asked and he could have sworn she was trying not to laugh.

He nodded, not trusting his voice, or his breath.

"Okay. Ready?" He nodded again and she put her arms under his chest and, with some difficulty, helped him stand.

So, it was true, that old saying, he thought. You really do feel better after a good puke.

"Grissom?"

"Yes?"

She smiled at him. "You really have to learn how to hold your liquor."

* * *

He barely made it to his bathroom. White tiles rushing up. Cool porcelain against his forehead.

Finally, it was all over. Again.

He brushed his teeth.

He crawled into bed.

Sara put a glass of water on his bedside table and lay a wet washcloth on his forehead. He wondered if he was in Heaven.

"Is there anything else I can get you?" she asked. She was sitting on the edge of his bed in the semi-darkness, still clad in her lovely blue dress. Sara was sitting on his bed, in his bedroom. He really wished his head would stop spinning long enough for him to fully process this mind-boggling fact.

"I'm okay…I think." He paused. "Thank you."

At least the cool cloth on his face felt good.

At least he didn't feel in imminent danger of throwing up.

At least his teeth were brushed.

"Sara," he said as she went to stand.

"Yes?"

He wasn't the sort of person to just blurt out _I love you_, even if he wanted to. So, he didn't.

He sighed.

"I'm … sorry," he said.

"For?" She was smiling.

"Your, uh, you know. The thing. That you were doing. You were on a date." He still couldn't quite get his mind around this notion.

"I was," she said, nodding, "and now I'm here. I'd say I came out ahead."

She leaned down to adjust his sheets and his hands found her shoulders, pulled her down a bit further, and his lips found her forehead, brushed against the skin there lightly.

"Are you still drunk, by any chance?" she said quietly. Her eyes were very wide and dark and amused, but wary.

"I'm suddenly, incredibly sober," he said.

She sighed. It sounded very loud in the quietness of his room.

"Okay," she said, going to rise again.

"I owe you," he said.

"Oh, I don't think so. I think I owed you."

"No, no. I mean, I owe you a movie. You missed yours."

She sighed again.

"Grissom," she began. She stopped. She stood up. "Feel better, okay?"

She paused in the doorway.

"Feel better," she said again. Then she left.

Grissom closed his eyes. Whoops. He opened them.

He leaned over for his glass of water. He took a sip. And another. He raised it.

He wasn't the sort of person to randomly quote from old movies.

Or, maybe he was.

_Here's looking at you kid._

* * *

_Fin._

As Time Goes By, music and words by Herman Hupfeld


End file.
